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"First of all. . ." He had to unlock his jaw if he wanted to continue. His teeth were beginning to ache. He just felt so . . . outraged. Yes, outraged. Used, even. And expecting to be betrayed.
"First of all, if I sent a note, you would never admit to receiving visitors, correct? Second, I am not here to pay a social call, or not a pleasant one at any rate."
She clearly did not know what to think. Her eyes darted from him to Stimp, then back. "If this is about Moulter's . . ." She blushed. Actually blushed. "I apologize for not leaving word. I simply did not have time."
"Liar. You knew that night that you were leaving in the morning. Let's not pretend you were anything but dishonest."
Her eyes flicked to the boy again. "Regardless—"
"Yes," Hart sneered. "Regardless. It has nothing to do with that night except as it pertains to the news you received in that note."
"There was—" She broke off and studied him, trying to read his hand and not succeeding in the least. "There was a personal issue. Now if you will excuse me."
"Lark!" Hart shouted over his shoulder.
A lot of thumping and grunting preceded his driver's appearance, but Hart kept his eyes on Emma, measuring her smallest reaction. She looked worried and scared, but he didn't sense even a hint of recognition on her part. Then again, the woman was a consummate gambler, which meant she was a consummate liar.
"Your thief," he said simply when Lark dropped the man on the ground next to Hart.
"Is he . . .?" She swallowed. Hart watched hope and dismay, disgust and anxiety, shudder over her face. One emotion replaced the other in a dizzying show. "He's dead?" she finally asked.
"No, simply drunk. Do you recognize him?"
She stepped up two stairs and craned her neck. Her hands held her skirts in a death grip. "No."
"Well then, let's find out what he was looking for, shall we?"
Hart crouched beside the now snoring man. "Wait!" she cried, just as his palm cracked against the stubble-rough cheek. The man grunted and stirred, but nothing more.
"Wake up," Hart growled and slapped him again.
"Sir," Lark said as he appeared at Hart's side with a bucket filled with murky water.
"Perfect." Hart's murmur was overtaken by Emma's renewed command to wait. She flew up the stairs, close enough when Hart dumped the bucket that drops of dark water soaked into her gray skirts. She jumped back as the drunk finally sputtered to life. The man roared, spitting water, flinging it wide as he threw his arms out.
Hart resolved to take a bath within the hour as he dug his fingers into the man's dripping hair and yanked.
"What is your name?"
The man grunted and swung, earning himself a hard kick to the thigh. He yelped as Hart snarled, "Your name."
"Arse."
"Your name is Arse?"
"No, you're an arse. Now let me go before I tear your arm off, you rump eater."
Hart held up a hand to stop Lark's approach. He let go of the man's hair and smiled when his skull hit the ground with a meaty thump. The bastard was still reaching for his head when Hart carefully placed a boot over his throat and let some of his weight bear down.
The brown eyes began to bulge almost immediately. The hands flew from his bruised head
to Hart's ankle, but Hart pressed harder. "Remove your hands from my person or I'll be sure to lose my balance and crush your worthless throat."
The hands shook, but they rose an inch above the shiny black leather of Hart's boot. Hart eased up and let the man wheeze out a few breaths.
"Now I'm sure you are lying there thinking that in this enlightened age, in this modern city, a man cannot simply kill you in an alley in broad daylight and get away with it. But let me introduce myself, Mr. Arse. I am His Grace, the eighth Duke of Somerhart. I could kill you in front of the House of Lords and they would all swear they'd seen nothing. And if they didn't, I could buy the judge presiding over the case and walk away a free man. So do not doubt that if you don't give me what I want, I will kill you and never spare your sorry life another thought.
"If you refuse to cooperate, Lark here"— the man's eyes rolled toward the driver—"will drop your body in the Thames while I attend the theatre this evening. Am I making myself clear?"
